TO HAYDON.
ENCLOSING THE PRECEDING SONNET.
Haydon! forgive me that I cannot speak
Definitely of these mighty things;
Forgive me, that I have not eagle's wings,
That what I want I know not where to seek.
And think that I would not be over-meek,
In rolling out upfollowed thunderings,
Even to the steep of Heliconian springs,
Were I of ample strength for such a freak.
Think, too, that all these numbers should be thine;
Whose else? In this who touch thy vesture's hem?
For, when men stared at what was most divine
With brainless idiotism and o'erwise phlegm,
Thou hadst beheld the full Hesperian shine
Of their star in the east, and gone to worship them!
SONNET.
["I was led into these thoughts, my dear Reynolds, by the beauty of the morning operating on a sense of idleness. I have not read any books—the morning said I was right—I had no idea but of the morning, and the thrush said I was right—seeming to say,"]
O THOU! whose face hath felt the Winter's wind,
Whose eye hath seen the snow-clouds hung in mist,
And the black elm-tops among the freezing stars
To thee the Spring will be a harvest-time.
O thou, whose only book hath been the light
Of supreme darkness, which thou feddest on
Night after night, when Phœbus was away,
To thee the Spring shall be a triple morn.
